A couple of short funnies and a missed opportunity. Maybe.

I relayed to Hubby a conversation with a friend about how I wasn’t particularly interested in living to a ripe old age. She responded snippily, “Then I hope you die young.”

Hubby lovingly responded: “Too late for that.”

~~~

I was listening with earbuds to one of my new favorite songs, “Trees” by Twenty One Pilots. (Linked to save you the trouble, M.) The last few seconds pretty much enrapture me. I was thus fully engaged when Hubby came over and said something I didn’t hear. I held up a “just a moment” finger, not wanting to interrupt those last few glorious seconds.

Then I felt like a jerk, so I pulled out an earbud to listen to him. “So we only got one egg today? Bummer,” and he walked away.

He thought I was answering his question, which clearly had been, “How many eggs did we get today?”

The answer was indeed one, so I didn’t need to follow up. I put my earbud back in and proceeded to enjoy the next song.

~~~

Rooster Update:

Trying YET AGAIN to get only hens from Chicken Lady seemed like a losing proposition. (How many times did I try swapping out birds with her? I’ve lost count.) So I had decided to take our rooster problem into my own hands, literally.

I started researching “how to butcher chickens.” I even spoke with a friend who had once assisted in the process and Facetimed with my in-laws for more particulars. My plan, after the deed was done, was to write a blog post titled, “How I Solved My Rooster Problem, In Pictures.”

I wouldn’t let the pics be too graphic, but you’d get the idea: A chronology of the rooster’s demise, culminating in a photo of my smiling family sitting around the dining room table with a glistening roasted bird as the centerpiece. Below would be the words: Happy Thanksgiving!

Sure, a chicken isn’t a turkey, but a turkey would be too big for us, and eating our own rooster would be more fulfilling.

Plus, butchering it myself would make me feel like a friggin’ Warrior!

Just when I’d gotten myself pretty well psyched up by my plan, I got a message in response to a long-forgotten craigslist ad. Someone wanted my roosters. I had only listed one, but we discovered two more since then. I let him pick up all three the next day.

The white one in the middle was the crower, which is a shame because that variety, Leghorns, are superlative layers. When they’re girls. Turns out the other white ones were also roosters.

Was I disappointed? Slightly. Relived? Well, given how hard it was to pick up and subdue one of those big heavy birds, and thinking I would manfully string it up to a tree… Probably just as well.

I’m relieved they’re gone, and I no longer have to feed them.

Now I lie in wait to see what the other five birds decide to do: crow or lay. They should’ve started laying by now, so either they’re all boys, or they’re not as old as I was told they were.

I’ll let you know. And in the meantime, I’m keeping Rooster Guy’s number handy.